


This Is The Last Time

by doloploke



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-Season 2, Slade being a monster, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-14 05:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doloploke/pseuds/doloploke
Summary: But Nightwing knew the codes. He had been given them in case of emergency.“You have something my employer wants,” Deathstroke said as they were forced into an old operating theater. Bart and Cassie had to be carried. “I'm going to get it.”A mission goes horribly wrong. Jason's just trying not to make things worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a year and a half after the end of Season 2. This is essentially a Hurt/Comfort fic, but the Hurt is kind of intense. Warnings for torture, sexual violence, humiliation, and Slade saying some really fucked up things. 
> 
> Split into 2 chapters because it was getting long.

It was never meant to be like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. Maybe if M'gann focuses on how _wrong_ this is, her mind will bend reality like it's heavy copper wire, the way it did once all those years ago, and none of this will be happening. But her shoulders ache from how her hands have been pulled above her head and the oppressive smell of blood is filling her nose and there are all these _sounds_ coming from ten feet away and it's real, it's all real, she's here and it's not going away.

Alpha squad—Miss Martian, Kid Flash, Wondergirl, Robin and Nightwing—had been assigned to guard a convoy transporting Apokoliptan tech to a secure facility in Metropolis. They had been expecting some trouble, but nothing too major—maybe some enterprising small-time weapons dealers. After all, most of the major villainous players were still out of commission after the fall of the Light.

They were nowhere near prepared. M'gann realizes that now, and somehow it makes her feel even worse. Their convoy was attacked by a massive team of mercenaries as it passed through Gotham. They were well armed and very well trained. And they were led by Deathstroke.

The team managed to hold their own for a while, taking down about half of the mercenaries and preventing the deaths of the convoy's drivers. But it wasn't good enough. Deathstroke got behind Cassie and snapped an inhibitor collar around her neck before she even realized what was happening. In an instant she was down, her body twitching as electricity poured into it. Next was Bart, who was taken out by a brutal blow to the temple and immediately collared.

Two of the mercenaries held guns to Bart and Cassie's heads, and the rest of the team had no choice but to stand down. They were collared, bound, stripped of their communication devices, and thrown into one of the trucks as the convoy was rerouted to an abandoned medical facility on the outskirts of Gotham.

Nightwing seemed to be the first to figure out what was going to happen. The Apokaliptan tech was held in high-security safeboxes. Each safebox could only be unlocked with a different alphanumeric code. The locks were unbreakable and virtually unhackable.

But Nightwing knew the codes. He had been given them in case of emergency.

“You have something my employer wants,” Deathstroke said as they were forced into an old operating theater. Bart and Cassie had to be carried. “I'm going to get it.”

That was hours ago. Hours of sitting on the cold floor, hands chained to the wall above her head and an inhibitor collar heavy around her neck, watching helplessly as Nightwing was tortured. Deathstroke hurt him _inventively_ , in ways M'gann would never even think of. At first, she had struggled and yelled and threatened. Deathstroke had barely spared her a glance, but he pressed a burn into Dick's stomach when he was sure she was watching. Dick twitched and bit through his lip. It was warning enough.

Cassie, Bart, and Tim are next to her, similarly restrained. Cassie is still unconscious. Bart is awake, but his eyes are hazy and unfocused. His head lolls against his shoulder. M'gann is almost glad they're not really aware of what's going on around them. It's too horrible.

Dick is strapped to an operating table now. His legs are raised and spread, his feet locked into stirrups. Even from here, M'gann can see the angry lines Deathstroke beat into his soles. He's naked, completely exposed. One of the first things Deathstroke did was cut his Nightwing suit off him and remove his mask. He doesn't seem to care about Dick's identity, though. Nakedness is just another one of his tools. To make Dick easier to hurt, or maybe to make him feel humiliated and vulnerable. Maybe both.

On her other side, Tim is wide awake and staring. “It's okay,” M'gann whispers to him, over and over. “We'll be okay, just close your eyes. Everything will be okay.” She wishes there was something else she could say, something she could do, but the collar makes her feel so weak and tired. Tim shouldn't have to see this happen to the man he thinks of as his brother.

_(Her little brother, not so little anymore, grown up strong and smart and brave but still the child_ _she remembers,_ _trying so hard to be good enough, but still so kind, still laughing and--)_

Don't look. Don't listen. It'll be okay. This isn't happening.

Deathstroke is circling Dick, a cane held loosely in his hand. He strikes without warning, beating another line into Dick's foot. Dick flinches, but doesn't scream.

“We could stop, you know,” Deathstroke says. He sounds bored. This whole time he's been cold, wringing grunts and screams out of Dick with professional detachment. “Just tell me the codes, and it's over.”

“No,” Dick says. His voice is barely a whisper. At the beginning, there had been quips and taunts. Now there's just weak refusal.

Deathstroke shakes his head in disappointment, and strikes his feet again. Some of the welts start to bleed.

There are things M'gann wishes she didn't know—that this is called _falanga_ , that it is excruciating, that if Deathstroke aims his cane a bit higher or lower then Dick may never be able to walk without pain again.

Deathsroke circles again, and for a moment he seems resigned, almost remorseful. But in the next moment that hint of remorse gone. He delivers three more blows to Dick's feet, then hums thoughtfully.

“You know,” he says, dragging the tip of the cane along the inside of Dick's trembling thigh, “I think I've been going about this all wrong.” The cane moves higher, tracing a line up Dick's stomach. “I've been trying to torture you”--the cane flicks over Dick's left nipple, and he flinches-- “but you're actually kind of enjoying this, aren't you?”

Deathstroke lets the cane fall and seizes Dick's chin, turning his face back and forth, examining him. “Mm. Yes, you just _love_ being the center of attention, don't you?”

His cups Dick's cheek in his right hand and trails the other down to his collarbone, a parody of a caress. “I understand now. All those eyes on you, watching you--it's heaven for you, isn't it? That's why you haven't told me the codes. You don't want me to stop.”

“No,” Dick chokes out.

“I don't believe you,” Deathstroke says huskily. His hand travels further down Dick's body, over his chest, then lower, lower...

Surely, he won't. Deathstroke is cruel, and a killer, but he wouldn't do _that_.

M'gann is wrong. He does.

Dick makes a strangled sort of noise when Deathstroke's ungloved hand closes around his penis. He strokes up and down, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Dick's breath comes in short, panicked bursts. Deathstroke is still talking to him, his mouth right against his ear, but M'gann hears everything horrible thing.

“Mmm, hard already?” Deathstroke murmurs. “You can't lie to me. I can see how much you love this, how eager you are for it. They all can.” He grabs Dick by the hair and wrenches him up, forces him to look his team in the eyes. Dick gives a little cry of pain at the strain on his shouders, but it's nothing compared to the expression on his face: anguished, horrified shame.

M'gann feels like she's about to throw up. “Close your eyes,” she whispers urgently to Tim. This time, she can't bring herself to say that everything will be okay. “Don't watch, don't listen to him, just close your eyes--” But Tim's eyes are wide beneath his mask and his whole body is shaking. He doesn't look away.

“Look at them,” Deathstroke commands, and he jerks Dick's penis harder and faster, sliding his palm over the head. “Let them see you for what you are—an attention-hungry slut.”

Dick shakes his head, either in denial or in an attempt to escape Deathstroke's grip, but it's no use. His breathing is out of control, fast and wet—he sounds like he's choking.

“Cum, slut,” Deathstroke whispers. And with a cry of pure despair, Dick does.

Deathstroke grunts, like he's disappointed. He rubs his hand over Dick's stomach and chest, wiping off the semen.

“Well, that proves it,” he says casually. “There's no point in interrogating _you_ anymore. I'll just have to toss you aside and move on to someone else. The new Robin, perhaps? He seems like he'd break easily.”

“No...don't touch him” Dick says weakly, and his voice is so tiny and hurt that it breaks something in M'gann. She begins to cry.

Deathstroke clicks his tongue. “Liar. If you really didn't want me to, you would tell me the codes. But since you won't, well...” Deathstroke withdraws a key from a pouch on his belt, and begins to undo the cuff chaining Dick's right arm to the table. Dick starts to shake with panic.

“Robin will have to take your place. I think I'll string him up from the ceiling, whip him 'til he bleeds. I bet he'll scream.”

“No, don't--”

“And after I've had some fun, I'll stick a knife in his gut. He'll die slow, in agony, choking on his own bile. And while he's hanging there, I'll fuck you, just like you want. The last thing he'll see is you, bouncing on the cock of the man who killed him, and he'll die knowing what a filthy, pathetic _whore_ you really are.”

“No, no, don't--” Dick is writhing on the table, words spilling over each other in desperation, voice raw with pain. “Please, I'll do anything, just don't!”

“Tell me the codes.”

“Fine, yes, just please don't hurt him. Please.”

“I won't, if you tell me the codes.”

Dick sucks in a ragged breath. “Okay. Okay.” At last, Deathstroke stops. “The first one is bravo two--”

“ _Slade._ ”

The name drops like a stone into a still pool, and everything is suddenly quiet.

There is a man M'gann has never seen before standing in the doorway. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and stands with the still confidence of someone who knows he is dangerous. He's dressed almost like a civilian, in a leather jacket and jeans, but his face is covered by a featureless red helmet. In his right hand he holds a gun. With his other hand he drags a medical waste bag.

The man advances towards Deathstroke, his boots loud against the linoleum. The medical waste bag trails behind him. Whatever is in it sounds heavy.

“Red Hood,” Deathstroke says. His voice is calm, but his body has slipped into a fighting stance. “What brings you here?”

“This is my territory,” the stranger says harshly. “And I want you out. Your deal's off.” He tosses the bag towards Deathstroke. It lands on the linoleum with a wet _thunk_.

Deathstroke considers the man and the bag for a several long seconds. Then, finally, he says, “Then I suppose I'm done here.”

A strange, bitter anger fills M'gann's stomach. After all of that, after everything that he did, Deathstroke is just _done?_ M'gann wants to throw him against the wall until his body is a sack of shattered bones, wants to rip apart his mind from the inside out, or at the very least, wants him to show that he has some _inkling_ of what a monstrous thing he's done. Her vision swims, and Deathstroke is still talking.

“Though there is, of course, the matter of payment,” he continues.

The man draws a smartphone from the pocket of his jacket and tosses it at the mercenary. “Information for the wire transfer is on there. Anything else?”

Deathstroke's gaze falls on Dick, who is still strapped naked to the table. Her friend is eerily silent now. M'gann can't even hear him breathing.

“No, I suppose not,” Deathstroke says. He begins to pack up briskly. At the same time, the stranger begins to approach M'gann and her teammates. As he moves further into the room, he is able to take in the whole scene—the semen on Dick's stomach, the tremors in Tim's shoulders, the tear tracks on M'gann's cheeks. She can't see his face, but his shoulders start to shake with what she thinks is rage.

“Slade! _”_ he calls again, and this time his voice is tight with fury.

“Hmm?” Deathstroke replies casually. He's almost out the door.

“I thought you had _standards,”_ the stranger bites out. He gestures accusingly at Dick. “Lines you wouldn't cross.”

Deathstroke sighs. He looks at Dick now, too, his expression unreadable. Almost regretful. “I do,” he says evenly. “I would never have touched the children.” And then he's gone.

On the table, Dick starts to cry.

The stranger runs to M'gann's side and kneels in front of her. He pulls out something thin and metal from his jacket and reaches behind her neck, fiddling with the lock on her inhibitor collar.

“Thank you,” M'gann says, but he doesn't say anything in return.

The collar falls off, and her power floods back into her so suddenly she gasps.

“Free the kids,” the stranger says brusquely, “and get out of here.”

“But Nightwing--”

“Those two need medical attention, and fast. I'll take care of Nightwing.” The man turns away from her and moves towards Dick, clearly intending for the conversation to be over. But M'gann's not going to just let some _stranger_ take Dick from her like this, not after...that. She can't name it, not even in her own mind.

M'gann struggles to stand, her limbs still weak and uncoordinated from hours in an inhibitor collar. “I won't—”

“It's okay, Miss Martian.” Tim's voice is soft, but it startles her into silence anyway. It's the first time he's spoken in hours. “We should do what he says.”

M'gann stares at Tim is surprise. She would have thought that he would be just as opposed to this as she was, if not more. He has to know something she doesn't, if he trusts this man. “Who is he?” M'gann whispers.

Tim hesitates. He isn't looking at her--he's watching the stranger as he approaches Dick. The stranger puts a hand on Dick's shoulder, and Dick twitches and shudders. M'gann almost lashes out then, almost throws the stranger against the wall and finally, _finally_ does something to protect Dick. But then Dick stills, leans into the touch as if it's his lifeline.

“He's...an ally,” Tim says at last. “It's complicated. But he won't hurt Nightwing. Not like this.”

M'gann has to accept that for now. “All right,” she says. With a pulse of power she breaks the inhibitor collars around her teammates' necks. While Tim frees Bart and helps him stand, she looks over Cassie. The girl is still unconscious, but her breathing and heartbeat are steady. M'gann breaks her bonds and carefully levitates her, trying not to move her too much. She reaches out with her mind to call the bioship, then leads the remains of her team out of that terrible room. Tim half-carries Bart, who is troublingly unsteady.

Just before they leave the room, M'gann takes one last look at Dick. The collar is gone and the shackles on his hands and ankles are undone, but he hasn't moved. He's still staring straight up at the ceiling, his face twisted up in grief. The stranger is speaking softly to him, saying things M'gann can't hear.

Her touch on the stranger's mind is soft and light, like a loose sheet settling over a bed. She finds the shape of his intention, feeling for the sharp edges of cruelty or maliciousness. There aren't any. But his mind is strange. It's touched by something foreign and unknowable that sets her teeth on edge, yet it's somehow familiar. Like a quilt made out of squares of an old t-shirt, rearranged and sewn together with acid-green thread. She _knows_ this mind. Or rather, she knew a version of it. It belonged to someone she knew, and trusted. She can't quite place his identity, but M'gann is sure now that whoever he is, this man won't hurt Dick.

Next to her, Bart sways and almost falls. Tim struggles to keep him upright, and the worry is obvious on his face. M'gann knows they have to leave.

The facility is eerily silent as they move through it. They pass by several unconscious mercenaries, most secured with zip ties or cuffs. Several of them have been beaten brutally, but M'gann feels no pity.

Near the exit, they encounter a grizzlier sight: a massive, headless corpse and a gory machete. They have to step over the body to reach the door. Tim looks vaguely sick. Up close, M'gann recognizes the dead man—Bruno Mannheim, sadistic and occasionally cannibalistic leader of Intergang.

She knows what was in the bag now.

Heroes don't kill people. That was one of the first things she learned when she came to Earth. But M'gann can't deny her dark satisfaction.

The bioship is waiting for them just outside the door. M'gann lays Cassie down in the medical bay and directs Tim to do the same with Bart. She sets up heart rate and blood pressure monitors and fluid IVs while Tim calls up to the Watchtower and gives a sit rep.

As M'gann takes her place at the controls, she hears Batman say “and Nightwing?”

“With Red Hood,” Tim replies. He's trying hard to keep his voice steady.

Batman doesn't say anything. His mouth is set in a hard line, the rest of his face carefully blank. It's an expression M'gann recognizes, though she hasn't seen it often. It's the one he wears when he is really, truly angry. To his credit, Tim doesn't look away.

Then the moment breaks, like a snapped rubber band. “Fine,” Batman says. “I trust your judgement, Robin. Batman out.” The holoscreen blinks away, and Tim collapses into his seat.

It hits her, then, whose mind she felt under that red helmet. It's impossible, it's _beyond_ impossible, and yet. She's so sure.

“Robin,” she says, “was that--”

“Yeah,” he cuts in before she can finish. “Yeah, that was Jason.”

She has so many questions, but she settles on: “How?”

“We don't know,” Tim says. “He doesn't really know, either. It's a complicated situation.” His voice has a tight, flat quality that M'gann has come to recognize. Dick and Barbara get it, too. It's the tone that means: _This is family business. You wouldn't understand_.

M'gann doesn't push him. He's been through so much today—she won't ask any more of him. There will be time for more questions later, when they are both less worn out and raw.

A green glow shines through the windows of the bioship--Rocket and a Green Lantern have arrived to pick up the Apokaliptan tech. M'gann is startled to see them at first. She had almost forgotten why there were all here in the first place. Rocket waves at her as she passes—M'gann manages to wave back, but barely.

Neither she nor Tim say a word as she eases the ship of the ground. As they rise, a dam inside her breaks, and she's flooded with too many emotions to name—relief, worry, anger, fear, pity, all of what she had supressed with the consuming thought of _get the team safe_ , now threatening to spill out.

“Nightwing will be okay,” she says. “Everything will be okay.” It's both a declaration and a prayer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This is probably the worst Jason's ever seen Dick, which is saying something. He's covered in welts, bruises, and little burns, and Jason is sure that if he turns him over, his back will be worse. Just looking at his feet sends sympathy twinges through Jason's soles. His hair is sopping wet and plastered to his forehead—leftovers from water boarding. Three of his fingernails are missing.

His mind is in a bad way, too. Dick's eyes are glazed and unfocused, and he's sucking in breaths so fast he's choking on them, on the verge of hyperventilating. Tears are leaking down his cheeks. He doesn't even seem to realize that it's over. _Dissociating_ , Jason thinks.

At least none of the physical damage looks permanent.

“Nightwing,” he whispers. “It's over.” Dick doesn't respond. He doesn't even seem to see him.

“Nightwing,” Jason tries again. Still nothing.

Jason knows he shouldn't do this, but he can't think of anything else. He gently puts a hand on Dick's shoulder. Sure enough, Dick jerks away, his breath stuttering and catching.

“ _Dick,”_ Jason whispers softly and urgently. “Dickie, it's okay, it's me. It's Jay. You're okay.” Finally, Dick hears him. His breathing slows, and his body stills.

“Jay?” he whispers.

“Yeah, it's me. Just relax.” And Dick does—he closes his eyes, leans into Jason's touch like it could offer him some comfort. Like he trusts him.

Jason wishes he were better at this.

Looks like the replacement vouched for him, because Miss Martian frees the rest of her team and get them ready to leave. Jason is pretty sure he made the right call in insisting that he be the one to take care of Dick. Wondergirl and the new Kid Flash ( _guess he's not the only dead sidekick to get replaced)_ are in a bad way. They need the full attention of Miss Martian and the League's doctors, and they won't get that with a traumatized Nightwing to worry about. Besides, Jason can't think of anything worse than facing Batman immediately after a night like this. Not even Dick deserves that. Jason might not be great at this whole comfort thing, but he's way better than fucking _Bruce_.

The inhibitor collar is easy enough to take apart with his picks. One of Dick's cuffs is already undone—Jason will have to ask the replacement about that later—so he moves around to Dick's other side and gets to work. As he works, the lock clangs a bit, and Dick goes stiff as a board. His breath catches, and he doesn't exhale.

Fuck. Okay. Jason can find a way to deal with this, somehow.

“Just unlocking your other cuff, Dickie,” Jason murmurs. “You'd think I'd be better at doing this quietly, huh? But these are some tough sons of bitches.” Talking seems to help a bit. At least, Dick starts breathing again. So Jason keeps going, mindlessly narrating his actions as he frees Dick's wrist and moves on to his ankles.

What's left of the team shambles out of the operating room just as Jason finishes. At the door, Drake shoots him a look over the top of Kid Flash's hair. To the kid's credit, his gaze his pure fucking steel. It says: _I'm trusting you. If you make me regret this, I'll make you pay._

Jason tilts his head slightly. _Message received_.

Miss Martian is looking at Dick, not him. She doesn't need to stare him down—he knows that she could rip him apart in an instant, and that she wouldn't hesitate if he did anything to hurt her friend. Not that he would, not when Dick is so vulnerable like this. He just hopes she knows that.

The others leave, and Jason is faced with a challenge: how to get Dick up and out of here without aggravting his injuries. His feet are a mess. There probably won't be any lasting damage, but he definitely can't walk on them right now. And there's still the issue of his back.

“All right, Dick, time to get up,” Jason murmurs. Dick doesn't respond, but he doesn't freak out, either. He seems to have retreated somewhere deep in his head again. Maybe that's for the best, for now.

“Just gonna take your feet out of these stirrups, and then I'm gonna help you sit up.” Jason eases Dick's left foot out of the stirrup, mindful of the welts on the soles. His leg spasms and contracts. His thighs are horribly cramped—he must have been bound like that for a long time.

It's going to be impossible to carry him out of here if he's crimped up like a pillbug. “I'm gonna have to loosen your legs up a bit, Dick,” Jason says, and starts massaging the cramps out of Dick's thighs. “Jesus, man, what have you got in here, cement?” It's not his best joke, but Dick isn't really listening.

He's tries to keep his touches light and professional. After a few minutes work, Dick's legs are loose enough that Jason can slowly uncurl them. Dick's feet dangle over the edge of the table, like he's a gangly teenager on a too-small bed.

Jason eases him upright, and can't help but wince. Dick's back is absolutely covered in dried blood. Jason runs his hands over the tacky mess, checking for still-bleeding wounds. He doesn't find any. Slade was careful. Didn't want Dick to go loopy with blood loss—that would probably have ruined the fun. In some ways that makes things easier. Jason wasn't looking forward to field surgery.

“Okay, up we go,” Jason says, positioning his hands under Dick's knees and behind his neck. It will be better to do this quickly. He pulls Dick into his arms and lifts him in one smooth movement. Dick squirms a bit but then settles, leaning his head into Jason's shoulder.

It's startlingly intimate in a way that would have seemed impossible when Jason first exploded back into Batman's world, sick with rage and grief and trying to excise some of his pain by pounding it into someone deserving. Back then, he couldn't look at Dick without wanting to bloody his knuckles on his stupid, beautiful face. He still feels that violent, directionless hurt course through him sometimes, when he thinks of how he'll always be the un-favorite, the mistake, the unwelcomed prodigal son of their fucked up little family.

But not now. When Jason looks down at the battered man in his arms he feels rage, but not at him. For him. But rage isn't what Dick needs right now. He needs painkillers, and food, and sleep, and needs someone to treat his wounds and make him feel safe. He needs to be out of this room.

Jason gathers Dick a little closer to his chest and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title (and general atmosphere) for this fic come from "This Is the Last Time" by the National https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-VVp-tKqFNY

Jason goes out the back way, avoiding Bruno Manheim's corpse. It might be cowardly, but neither he nor Dick is really up to having _that_ conversation right now.

The bioship rushes by overhead as they emerge, ruffling Jason's clothes and raising goosebumps on Dick's bare arms. On the other side of the facility, a green light moves and glows. Jason can hear voices in the distance. The League got here fast.

It's still mostly dark outside, but the sky is shifting from black to bluish grey and there's a diffuse, pearly light along the horizon. Sunrises in Gotham are never clear. The air is wet and cold, and Dick shivers in his arms. 

His footsteps crunch loudly in the frost-covered grass as he makes his way to the hidden spot where his car is stashed. He's driving a Honda Accord today, and if Dick was more with it he'd probably be making fun of him for it. But whatever, it's a practical and inconspicuous vehicle, and Jason is secure enough in himself that he doesn't need to roll around in a miniature tank to feel tough.

It takes a bit of shuffling, but he manages to get the passenger side door unlocked and opened without dropping Dick on his ass. He sits Dick down on the cold leather seat, then goes around back and pops the trunk. He keeps a sparse emergency kit in all of his vehicles—basic first aid, fire extinguisher, hunting knife, supplies to survive a few days if he was stranded somewhere. He grabs two bottles of water, a protein bar, and a plaid felt blanket.

“Here,” he says, tossing the water and food at Dick. He catches them a bit awkwardly. Jason holds out the blanket to him, but he just stares at it.

“I'm dirty,” Dick says, like it's dogma. “If it touches me, it'll get dirty.” His voice is distant and confused, as if he can't understand what's happening. As if this stupidly small kindness Jason is showing him goes against all order and reason.

“I don't care,” Jason says firmly. “I'll wash it.”

Dick takes the blanket hesitantly, like he still doesn't believe him. But he wraps it around his shoulders all the same.

As Jason climbs into the driver's seat and starts the car, Dick curls up tighter around himself, his knees pressing against his chest. Jason tries to think of something to say to ease some of the tension so evident in Dick's body. “You should drink some water,” is all he comes up with. Dick does open the bottle and take a sip, though, which is something.

It's intensely surreal, driving through the industrial outskirts of Gotham at dawn with his sometimes-estranged not-quite-brother wrapped in pink and blue plaid in the passenger seat. Jason turns on the radio to fill the silence as they pull onto the mostly deserted freeway. The chorus of Radiohead's “High and Dry” fills the car, slightly tinny through the radio, and Jason sings along under his breath like he always does.

Dick doesn't seem to feel much like talking, which is rare but also makes sense. His throat is probably killing him. That's fine, though. Jason just keeps driving and humming along to the radio, as “High and Dry” becomes “1979” becomes an ad for mattresses. If he lets himself forget that Dick is naked and bloody beneath the blanket, it feels like they're on a road trip together. Like they're normal guys, maybe even friends, driving through the night until dawn on some whim of a vacation because they're still young enough to do things like that.

It's a nice dream, but it ends when Jason pulls the car into an alley next to a squat apartment complex in north Gotham.

“Where are we?” Dick asks muzzily.

“Safe house,” Jason replies. It's mostly true. It is a secure location, and as safe as Jason can make it, but it's also where he's been living for the past few months.

“I'm okay to walk,” Dick rasps when Jason goes to scoop him out of the passenger seat. Jason glances at his feet. They've turned a ruddy purple and are starting to swell.

“You're really, really not,” Jason replies. Dick scowls at him. “Look, I know it sucks, but you know what sucks more? Risking irreversible damage to your feet because you refuse to stay off them.”

“Fine. Just--”

“I'll be quick,” Jason promises, his voice gentle. He's been around enough to know how painful the lack of control must be for Dick. He doesn't want to make things worse, but he also doesn't want to watch Dick bull-headedly hobble his way into permanent mobility loss.

True to his word, he gets Dick out of his car and into his basement apartment in about forty-five seconds, including the fifteen seconds it takes for him to disable his security system one-handed. His place is a small shotgun studio, sparsely but comfortably furnished with a kitchenette, work station, coffee table, armchair, bed, and a bunch of milk crates acting as makeshift book shelves. Standard stuff, except for the spools of high-tensile wire and drone guts he's been playing around with on his work table.

He carries Dick, felt blanket and all, into his bathroom and sits him down on the toilet. He looks even worse under the florescent light. His skin is sallow, and there are deep, purplish shadows under his eyes.

“Keep eating that,” Jason commands, pointing at the half-eaten protein bar clutched loosely in Dick's hands. “I'll be right back. Try not to pass out while I'm gone.”

He leaves the bathroom door open while he moves around the rest of the apartment, getting ready. First he ditches his helmet and weapons, then slips out of his body armor. He pulls on a shirt that doesn't smell so strongly of blood, and finds a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt that will probably fit Dick. Then he grabs his big first aid kit, painkillers, a towel, the softest washcloths he owns. He takes a Gatorade and a banana from the kitchen, too—he might not be a great nurse, but he can at least keep shoving food down Dick's throat.

Back in the bathroom Dick has shifted. He's leaning back against the toilet, his head resting against the wall, staring off into the middle distance. The blanket has fallen down around his shoulders and his neck is arched, creating a graceful line from the curve of his jaw down to his navel. A dark bruise stands out in the hollow of his collarbone. In the yellow light, he looks like something out of a Caravaggio painting, a brutalized and beautiful saint.

Jason's breath catches in his throat.

“Hey,” he says, setting the things he's carrying down on the floor. “Here, I got you some more food. You eat while I draw a bath, then I'll get you cleaned up and bandaged, and then you can go to sleep. Sound okay?”

No response.

“C'mon, man, you know you have to eat. You'll feel better, I promise.”

Jason puts the banana in his lap and nudges at his hand with the Gatorade bottle. Dick turns to look at him, wearing an expression of bitter incredulity.

“Tastes like sand,” he croaks. And doesn't Jason know _that_ feeling.

“Yeah, well, you've gotta have something in your stomach before you take the painkillers, Dickiebird, or you'll ralph all over my bed,” he says gruffly. Rough assholery would be easier for Dick to deal with than pity, coming from him. “So eat up.”

Dick stares up at him balefully, but takes a sip from the Gatorade anyway. Satisfied, Jason turns away and turns on the bathtub faucet. The pipes gurgle, but the water that bursts out is clear and warm. Behind him, Dick munches dutifully on his banana.

Jason watches the water slowly fill the tub, and doesn't turn around. He will give Dick these few moments of privacy. Instead he holds one hand under the faucet and adjusts the temperature until it's perfect. The water feels good rushing over his hand, warm and heavy. It centers him.

When the tub is three-quarters full, he turns off the faucet. The blanket, tacky with blood, is tossed into the hamper to be cleaned. Jason helps Dick up, and then eases him into the tub. When the water hits his wounds, Dick hisses, then sighs. He closes his eyes again, and rests his head against the cool, porcelain lip.

“Tell me if something hurts worse than it should,” Jason says as he wets the washcloth. Dick grunts softly.

Jason starts with his shoulders, dragging the washcloth over the reddish-black expanse. Dick's blood has dried crusty and hard. Jason is as gentle as he can be. By the time he's done, the water in the tub is stained light pink.

Dick lets Jason arrange his limbs so that he can clean the wounds on his sides and on the bottoms of his feet. He stays limp and still in Jason's arms as Jason carefully dunks him under the water and to rinse the sweat and blood out of his hair. Jason thinks again of martyrs and baptisms and sins, and has to stare at a grubby bit of grout until his head feels normal again.

Dick moves on his own accord in the bath only once. When Jason scrubs away the semen that has dried around his navel, Dick flinches so hard that he bangs his elbow on the rim of the tub and splashes water onto the floor. Jason looks up at him, trying to check in. But Dick's face is blank, and he doesn't say a word.

The wounds and bruises stand out against Dick's skin more once he's clean. Jason's original assessment was largely right—the cuts are shallow, and won't need stitches. He'll have to keep an eye on the burns, though, and there's a long, purpling bruise, the exact size and shape of a baseball bat, along Dick's ribs that could turn into a problem. Jason's pretty sure the ribs aren't broken, just bruised, but he'll monitor Dick's breathing just in case.

Water sloshes as Jason helps Dick out of the bathtub and sits him back down on the toilet. He bundles him up in a towel and watches him wash down pain relievers with Gatorade. The sound of the water gurgling down the drain fills the bathroom, and dampens the silence between them. Jason pulls the first aid kit towards him and gets to work.

He starts with Dick's feet and moves his way up, applying antibiotic creams and burn gels and wrapping wounds in gauze. After he's dealt with the major injuries Dick's legs and torso, Jason helps him into the sweats and t-shirt. They're too big on him, and make him look thin and small.

“Why are you doing this?” Dick asks quietly when Jason is almost done treating his wounds. The bathroom has been quiet for almost half an hour now, but Jason couldn't think of anything to say.

“Doing what?” Jason asks, finishing the last splint on Dick's broken fingers.

“ _This,”_ Dick says, his voice rising. Jason can feel him shaking. All of the anger and pain that must have been boiling under his skin for hours is finally bubbling up, like lava through a volcanic fissure. This is going someplace bad, and fast.

“Look, man, I know shit has been rough between us, but I--”

“ _I don't deserve this_!” Dick screams suddenly, his voice cracking. “The food, the bath, your kindness--I don't deserve any of it! Jason, I—I failed _again_ , I almost gave Slade what he wanted, and if you hadn't come in--”

Dick's eyes are bright and wild, and he looks the dangerous type of desperate. Jason's never seen him like this, didn't even think Dick _could_ get like this. It's terrifying and Jason isn't cut out for this shit, but he's the only one here right now.

“You didn't fail, Dick. You held out long enough for help to get there,” Jason says firmly. Dick shakes his head frantically.

“But you weren't there before, you didn't see it. Slade saw right through me, saw what I really am, he was right about me--”

Dick is hurtling towards raw, red despair, and Jason does the only thing he can think of to stop him. He lunges forward and grabs Dick's face, digs his fingers into his hair. “Listen to me!” he shouts, his face inches from Dick's. “Slade wasn't right about you. He doesn't know _anything_ about you, you understand?” Dick glares at him in wretched defiance. His lips are trembling.

“You don't--”

“ _You understand?”_ Jason bellows again. Dick flinches, and cuts his gaze away.

Jason's grip relaxes, turns into something gentle. He sighs and brushes a wet strand of hair out of Dick's eyes.

He takes one of Dick's hands between his and rubs circles into his knuckles, the way he'd seen Dick's friends do a few times when he was a kid. Touch always used to make Dick feel better. He hopes that's still true.

The hand he's holding begin to shake more violently, and then suddenly there are clumsy, swollen fingers scrabbling around his and big, choking breaths gasping over his skin as Dick surges desperately into his arms. Jason sprawls back onto the damp tile under the sudden weight. His shin is caught awkwardly between the toilet and the wall, and he bangs his elbow on the tub on the way down, but Jason doesn't push Dick away. Cautiously he wraps his arms around him, one hand cradling his head. Dick beats his fists against his chest and sobs.

Dick is saying something that Jason can't make out, his voice muffled against Jason's t-shirt. Jason is glad he can't understand. He can tell from the frantic, unhinged cadence that it's the kind of thing Dick wouldn't want him to know, when he's come back to himself. He runs his fingers through the curling hairs at the nape of Dick's neck and hushes him, mumbling a stream of vague comforts. “It's okay, you're all right now, shhhhh, I've got you.”

In the corner of Jason's mind Bruce is there, just like he always is between them. He's in Jason's discomfort at being this close to Dick when he's so fucked up, in Dick's desperate, mindless fear of failure, in the way that they still don't quite know what to do with each other. He's why they're here together instead of alone.

They lie tangled up together on the floor for what feels like hours. The weak blows against his chest falter and then stop. Dick curls his fingers into Jason's t-shirt instead. His breathing evens out as some of the wiry tension leaves his body.

“You with me?” Jason asks softly.

“Yeah,” comes the soft reply. “Jay, I'm sorry about--”

“Don't do that shit,” Jason interrupts sharply.

“Do what?” Dick asks, a little taken aback.

“Apologize when you have nothing to be sorry for.” Dick's jaw tenses against Jason's collarbone, like he's building up the strength to argue. There's Bruce, again. There's that stupid, solipsistic, self-sacrificing urge that just won't quit.

Jason sighs. “Look, you're exhausted. You need to get some rest. We can hash out your martyr complex when you wake up, all right?”

Slowly, timorously, Dick nods. He lets himself be hauled up and carried the short distance to Jason's bed. Jason sets him down gently and pulls the covers up over his legs. Dick has a purposeful, parted-lips look on his face, like he's about to say something that Jason won't be able to handle. Jason turns away before he has the chance.

There's enough daylight coming in through the high, thin windows to read by. Jason settles into his armchair and picks up the book he's been re-reading. He listens for the whisper of Dick's breath as he reads, waiting for it to settle into the steady rise and fall of sleep. It never does. Dick turns over, then turns over again. He curls up on his side and makes a noise that's halfway between a sigh and a whine.

“Dickie?” Jason asks cautiously. That wasn't a good noise.

Dick turns and raises his head slightly. He looks embarrassed and frustrated, like he's just failed at something he thought would be easy for him. A little bit plaintive, too, as if he wants help but is too scared to ask.

“I can't sleep,” he says, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Even though I'm exhausted, my mind won't fucking _shut up_. It's like there are sirens blaring in my head, blasting every bad thing at 200 decibels, and every time I close my eyes it gets worse. I just can't...” Dick breaks off into a sigh. His voice, when he speaks again, is startlingly shy.

“I need something to drown out the noise,” he says. “Jay, could you...read to me?”

“Uh,” Jason says.

“It's okay!” Dick says quickly. He mostly manages to cover up his dismay. “I'll just, um—”

“No,” Jason interrupts, his mouth finally catching up to his brain. “No, it's fine. I'll read to you. Scootch over.”

Dick scootches, a little awkwardly because of his ribs, and Jason lies down next to him. He feels Dick relax a little, just from the closeness. Their shoulders are barely touching.

“What are you reading?” Dick asks. Jason turns to book to show him the title.

“ _The Once and Future King._ I love that book,” Dick says.

 _Yeah, I know_ , Jason thinks, but doesn't say. He isn't sure if Dick remembers.

It was years ago, a week after Jason's fourteenth birthday. He was in his room in the manor, trying to concentrate on his summer reading for school. Normally that was no problem—Jason actually enjoyed his schoolwork. But that night, concentrating was almost impossible.

Dick had come home for the first time in weeks, and almost immediately he and Bruce got into another explosive fight. They were both shouting so loud that Jason could hear them from his bedroom, even though he was trying not to listen. They were so _vicious_ to each other. They knew which sore spots to jab at, just what to say to hurt the other the most. Just like when they fought with their fists, Jason supposed.

There was a loud, sharp crash from downstairs, then the unmistakable sound of the entrance to the Batcave sliding open. Then there was quiet. Just as Jason was starting to relax, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and a soft knock on his door.

“It's open,” Jason called, dog-earring his page. To his surprise, it wasn't Bruce at his door. It was Dick. He was already wearing his motorcycle jacket, and had his bag slung over his shoulder. Jason wondered vaguely if Bruce had ordered him to get out again. 

“Hey Jay,” Dick said. He was rubbing the back of his neck, and looked more awkward than Jason thought it was possible for him to look. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Sure,” Jason said warily.

Dick came a few steps into the room, but stopped several feet away from Jason's chair. He looked apologetic and embarrassed. “That wasn't about you, you know,” he said, in what he probably thought was a convincing and reassuring tone.

“Whatever,” Jason said. He knew the truth.

Dick fidgeted in place for a while, clearly uncomfortable. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a small wrapped package.

“Alfred told me how much you like to read,” he said, setting the package down on Jason's bed. “This is one of my favorites, so I thought maybe you'd like it, too. I'm know I'm a bit late, but—happy birthday, little wing.”

Then he was gone, before Jason could do anything more than stammer out a shocked “Thanks.” A minute later, he heard the roar of Dick's motorcycle as it tore down the manor drive.

Jason ripped open the package. Inside was a pristine hardcover copy of _The Once and Future King_. When Jason picked it up, a little card fell out. It said: _Call me anytime you_ _want to talk_. Underneath was a phone number.

The copy Jason is reading from now is a different one, a grubby paperback. He doesn't know what happened to the copy Dick gave him, or the unused card inside. Maybe Bruce got rid of it when he died. Or maybe he kept it, untouched, in Jason's old room in the manor, as part of a shrine to the memory of the boy who died and never really came back. He's never asked.

Jason clears his throat, and begins to read:

“ _'Do you know,' asked the Wart, thinking of the thrush, 'why birds sing, or how? Is it a language?'_

_'Of course it is a language. It is not a big language like human speech, but it is large.'_

_'Gilbert White,' said Merlyn, 'remarks, or will remark, however you like to put it, that “the language of birds is very ancient, and, like other ancient modes of speech, little is said, but much is intended...”_

Dick falls asleep as Archimedes and Arthur are flying to meet the wild geese on the great, flat plains. His hair falls soft and cool on Jason's collarbone, and his breathing is steady. Jason continues to read to himself. He drifts down into story, into an England that never existed, filled with green forests and grey feathers and the bittersweet lessons of late childhood.

He doesn't realize that he's fallen asleep until a gentle touch wakes him again. Night has fallen, and his apartment is dark. Dick lies close beside him, face angled towards Jason's.

“Jay?” 

“Mm?”

“Why'd you stay? I thought you hated me.” Dick's eyes are bright.

 _Because there's no way in hell I'd ever leave you alone like that._ _Because_ _sometimes_ _when I look at you I feel like a dumbstruck_ _kid_ _again. Because despite all the_ _built up_ _bullshit and anger and resentment_ _and pain_ _I_ _could never stop_ _loving you. Because_ _the only thing that stopped me from killing Slade where he stood is knowing that it would_ _make you feel worse_ _._

“That's a stupid question,” Jason says. It's not really an answer, but Dick doesn't push. He closes his eyes again, patient and trusting, and he doesn't turn his face away.

“Thanks,” Dick whispers.

There is nothing that Jason could say. Silently, he lays his hand on top of his brother's, and hopes that he understands.

 

* * *

 

It takes weeks of work, several bribes, some called-in favors, and a bit of luck, but Jason finally gets Slade. 

The mercenary is camped out in a rented brownstone in D.C., preparing for a hit on a Realasian diplomat. Jason hits him with a tranq dart to the carotid artery from a sniper's nest 500 meters away. The dose of paralytic neurotoxin in the dart is enough to kill a horse. It won't keep Slade down for long, thanks to his enhanced physiology. But it will be long enough.

By the time Jason reaches him, Slade has woken up and managed to drag himself a couple of feet on his belly. Jason stops him with a brutal kick to the ribs. He stomps on the backs of his knees for good measure, feels ligaments give way under his steel-toed boots.

“It...wasn't personal,” Slade wheezes as Jason binds him wrists to elbows with piano wire.

“Yeah?” Jason says, drawing his kris. The blade, clean for now, glints in the late afternoon light. “This is.”

Jason won't kill him, for Dick's sake. But he will make the motherfucker _pay_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage quoted in italics is from The Once and Future King by T.H White (New York: Penguin, 1987), p. 155. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! doloploke.tumblr.com if you want to say hi


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